The New Life
by ojuzu
Summary: Four things Narcissa might have been, and one she still is.


Author's Notes: Written for the springtime_gen community on livejournal.

* * *

1.

Azkaban is cold this time of year, as it is at any other. The heavy stone walls keep most of the cold out, but not all, and the guards are no help. There aren't even fires, except for the single Floo connection in the warden's office; everything is lit by _lumos_ and the weak sunlight that slips through the clouds now and then. It's not as if there's not much to trip over, anyway.

She hates this place. It is her hatred that has seen her through these past weeks, and if she is lucky it will be hatred that sees her through the remaining ones. The dementors have sucked away her hope, but knowledge is another thing.

Four weeks left. Only a month. Narcissa can stay here one more month, surely. The company is bad and the food is worse and the general atmosphere of the place makes her want to throw up, but she can stand it for another month.

"Warden, Prisoner 376 has requested to be transferred to - quote - "somewhere she doesn't have to listen to Avery's inane shrieking." Should we..."

"Yes," Narcissa says. "Put her in Sirius Black's old cell, it's quiet enough there."

* * *

2.

"I'm afraid there is no-one else I can ask," the headmaster had said.

Which was almost certainly true. There were very few accredited people in Britain with the necessary experience; even someone who has never taught before is preferable to a lack of expertise, especially in these dangerous times. Fortunately, her predecessor had been both competent and organized. She will barely have to tweak his lesson plans.

Her first class happens to be the first years, the Gryffindors nervous and giggling, the Slytherins nervous but hiding it better. (Except for Draco, who looks properly horrified at being taught by his mother.) She waits, carefully, until they are all a little on edge before sweeping into the room, enjoying the feel of her long teaching robes swishing behind her as she turns.

"You are here," she begins, "to learn the subtle and exact art of potions-making..."

* * *

3.

After Lucius' arrest and imprisonment - guilty of various murders, tortures, and serving Lord Voldemort - Narcissa is left with Draco and little else.

She moves into Spinner's End; the Ministry has forgotten about it, if they ever knew, and Severus is, at the moment, in no position to care. She scrubs and dusts and tries to remember if there's a charm to replicate the Muggle vacuum cleaner, while Draco sits and giggles at the sight of her with her hair tucked up in a kerchief. How did anyone ever get along without house-elves?

By _working_, Narcissa tells herself, and moves on to the next room.

It takes less time than she had expected - though much more effort - to get the house up to her standards, which have fallen low these past few weeks. (No insects; only a little dust; things where they won't be tripped over or pulled down by an over-curious Draco.) It's not a _bad_ house, all things considered.

When Severus is acquitted (and he _is_ - she sees to that, with what resources she has left) he returns to a place that is not cheerful, but not gloomy; the floors are swept, the Veritaserum he was brewing when the Aurors arrested him is bottled and finished, and the kitchen has one woman, a baby, and almost no food in it. (Narcissa never did learn how to cook.)

He is almost not surprised.

Narcissa hands him a stack of notes. "I've got an idea," she says, with no other greeting. "You remember that werewolf-controlling potion you and Lucius were thinking of? With some alterations, it could be feasible for..."

They can do this. She's not sure what 'this' is, exactly, but they can definitely do it.

* * *

4.

"Thank you," she says.

Kingsley laughs. "No, thank _you_. I love my job, but I've reached the point where I don't want to do it anymore."

"Planning on stealing Mr Potter's position, are you?"

"Oh, Merlin, no. It's International Co-Operation for me, I think." Kingsley checks his watch. "Your meeting to revise N.E.W.T. standards is at three, right? Rosier hates Divination and will probably try to get it removed entirely. O'Brian wants to keep history standards as low as possible, because it's easier for him to persuade ignorant people. Marchbanks wants to introduce a bit more critical thinking to the whole thing, I think-"

She holds up a hand. "That's the third time you've told me this today. I can manage."

He grins and winks. "Just take care... _Minister_."

* * *

5.

Poison has never been Narcissa's specialty. It is difficult to use and easy to trace and there is never any guarantee it will work, what with all the detecting charms and protective spells and bezoars floating around. Give her a simple death spell any day.

Her hands do not shake, but her bracelets jingle as she breaks the seal on Severus' letter. It is more of a note, really:

_Narcissa - I am happy to tell you that Mr Potter has graciously accepted my offer of assistance, with a few small conditions. Despite the multiple attempts on his life, he remains in good health and continues working towards his admirable goals. He has even made sure you will get this letter, though the heavy security we are under makes such things difficult. I hope you are doing well, Narcissa, and that you will join us soon._

She calmly lays it aside, to reply to in a few minutes. For now, she goes to the gorgeous marble bathroom and - calmly - throws up. Then she returns to her sitting room and drafts a short response.

_Thank you, Severus. I am glad to hear you are both doing well, and I will be joining you shortly._

Then she opens her desk drawer, and draws out a simple necklace. It is unspelled, and the jewel glitters in the afternoon light. There is nothing untoward contained in it at all; it will pass all kinds of wards and detection spells easily, for it is exactly what it appears to be.

Very few people remember that gemstones can be used in potions.

_I'm sorry, Mr Potter. But I do not think the country is ready for another Dark Lord._


End file.
